


come light me up

by carissima



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Feelings Realization, Fuckbuddies, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Phone Sex, Praise Kink, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22173517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carissima/pseuds/carissima
Summary: “You kissed me the night before we got drafted,” Connor says, unbuckling Jack’s belt and making light work of yanking Jack’s jeans down to his knees. With Jack’s thighs and his penchant for tight fitting pants, it’s an impressive move. “Blew me in the men’s restroom right after dinner.”“Fuck you I did not,” Jack grunts as he lifts up his hips to help Connor strip off his boxers.
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 18
Kudos: 389





	come light me up

**Author's Note:**

> i am a contrary creature.
> 
> thank you b for the beta, love you <3
> 
> there's a very brief, vague mention of jack sleeping with other people but he and connor aren't in a relationship and aren't exclusive and yeah, it's real brief.

Jack likes to pretend that he can’t remember how they started fucking around. He likes seeing the tiny crease between Connor’s eyes and the way his mouth turns down just a little. Jack likes knowing that no matter what he projects to the outside world, Connor McDavid can be a sulky brat sometimes.

“Draft weekend,” Connor says in that low, frustrated tone that always gets Jack’s dick interested when he hears it. It’s practically Pavlovian at this point, and kind of embarrassing when it happens while they’re thousands of miles apart and Jack catches one of Connor’s many post-game loss interviews. But right now, Connor is here, pushing Jack back against Connor’s plush leather sofa, climbing between his legs and trying to manhandle Jack into whatever position Connor wants him in.

Jack lets him, this time. It’s been over nine months since they last saw each other, and they’ve got less than two hours before Jack has to be back at his hotel before they fly to Calgary for their next game. Their next loss, Jack thinks morosely before he lets himself get distracted by Connor’s light, wandering hands on his torso.

“You kissed me the night before we got drafted,” Connor says, unbuckling Jack’s belt and making light work of yanking Jack’s jeans down to his knees. With Jack’s thighs and his penchant for tight fitting pants, it’s an impressive move. “Blew me in the men’s restroom right after dinner.”

“Fuck you I did not,” Jack grunts as he lifts up his hips to help Connor strip off his boxers. His dick is already hard and leaking, desperate for Connor’s touch. It’s been fucking forever. Hands, mouth, it doesn’t really matter to Jack. He knows Connor’s good for it. Frustratingly good. “You kissed me. Told me you’d liked me for ages.”

“Liar,” Connor lies with a straight face, and takes Jack into his mouth with a low groan that Jack feels all the way up his spine. He knows it’s a distraction technique and he’s willing to concede this once, because Connor’s mouth is wet and tight, and they’ve done this enough times by now that he knows exactly how to get Jack off quickly. Jack’s not even embarrassed at how quickly he comes in Connor’s mouth, a shaky moan escaping his half-bitten lips. Not when he can see Connor’s hand in his own pants, jerking himself off to the sight and very vocal sound of Jack’s very satisfying orgasm.

“I can help,” Jack says half-heartedly. He’s enjoying the slight edge to Connor’s desperation to come too much to really mean it.

When Jack leaves an hour later, Connor looks dopey and well-fucked, stumbling after Jack to see him to the front door of Connor’s ridiculously huge mansion.

“I can find my own way out,” Jack says with amusement as Connor leans weakly against the wall to watch Jack shove his feet into his snow boots because Edmonton is the fucking worst place in the world and Jack has no idea why Connor willingly signed to stay here for another eight years. “This place isn’t that big.”

“I know,” Connor says around a yawn. He looks less tired than when Jack faced off against him on the ice, and then beat his ass and the rest of his sorry team. Playing for Buffalo is a fucking slog but Connor’s aged at least ten years already, playing up here. Jack doesn’t envy him one bit. But apparently all Connor needs to recharge is a few rounds in bed - or on the sofa - with Jack. It’s probably best for the entire league that they only play twice a year, otherwise Connor would be truly terrifying on the ice. “Good luck with the season, yeah?”

Jack knows he should return the sentiment to be a good sport or whatever, but the words stick in his throat. He nods jerkily and after a slight hesitation that Connor definitely notices, he leans in, intending to brush a quick kiss to Connor’s cheek.

Connor clearly has other ideas, stepping into Jack’s space and hooking his arms around Jack’s neck, letting Jack take his weight because he’s still come-drunk and in need of several good nights sleep. “See you in January?”

“Sure,” Jack says, as casually as he can when Connor’s staring at him earnestly.

Luckily, Connor doesn’t seem to expect anything more from him because he closes the distance between them, and the quick kiss goodbye that Jack was hoping for turns into a slow, almost sweet make-out session, Jack’s back against the wall as he holds onto Connor’s hips where he’s settled between Jack’s thighs.

“Bye,” Jack says when he finally pulls free because his Uber is probably going to leave if he doesn’t get out there in the next 20 seconds.

“Bye,” Connor murmurs, squeezing his hand which is a surprise because Jack didn’t even realize that Connor was holding it.

Jack gets out of there as quickly as he can, and refuses to look back.

*

The problem, Jack thinks two weeks later when he’s in his shower, washing away the remnants of the very adequate and fine sex he’s just had with a guy he picked up on Grindr, is that Connor wasn’t meant to be good in bed. Jack thought they’d have angry, terrible sex at the draft and whatever tension was between them would disappear. Then Connor fucked his mouth and pulled his hair just the way Jack liked. And then Connor jerked him off, sucking hickeys into his collarbone where no one but Jack could see them, muttering obscenities about how Jack’s hockey made Connor hard and how much Connor liked having his dick in Jack’s mouth. And then, after Connor had gone first in the draft, Jack had found time to press Connor down onto his hotel bed and after a little grinding and a lot of making out, they’d come almost simultaneously all over each other. And then they’d somehow started fucking every time their teams played each other.

Team North America had been fun. Jack’s dick had never seen so much action, or attention.

The problem is that they’re fuckbuddies, but Connor is bad at fuckbuddies. Fuckbuddies don’t let their hookups stay over or make them breakfast. Connor can’t cook for shit, but last year they’d flown into Edmonton early so Jack had found himself staying over at Connor’s the night before their game. Connor had brought him toast and coffee on a tray for Jack to eat in bed. It was sweet, if a little basic.

Fuckbuddies aren’t meant to be sweet, aren’t meant to share slow, drugging kisses when they say goodbye, or talk about how much they’re looking forward to next time.

For the record, Connor has never stayed at Jack’s place, and Jack’s pretty sure he’s never even offered Connor a drink when he’s been over. He’s too busy trying to get Connor’s ugly blue and orange hoodies off to play host.

On the other hand, he’s the one in the shower, after a vaguely unsatisfying round of mediocre sex with someone else, getting hard while thinking about Connor kissing him goodbye.

So. He has a problem, clearly.

And it’s not just guys. Jack’s an equal opportunist sexual partner, so he’s well aware that he’s having mediocre sex with girls too in his post-McDavid sex era. He gets off and always makes sure his partner does too, but it’s never as good as it is with Connor.

He’s annoyed, frustrated and horny, which is a cocktail of emotions that Jack associates so keenly with Connor that he wraps his hand around his dick and jerks off to the thought of pinning Connor against his shower wall and fucking him until he can’t walk. Or skate.

It helps, a little.

*

When Jack is officially named Sabres captain, Connor sends him a text to congratulate him. It’s unexpectedly effusive, full of praise for Jack’s hockey and his work ethic and it’s not sexy at all.

Jack jerks off while reading it, imagining Connor saying the words in his stupid monotone voice.

And he stops sleeping with other people. It’s not even a huge change to his social life, which is when he realizes that he’s been slowly cutting down on picking up for a while.

Then, because he’s a fucking idiot, he grabs his phone and pulls up Connor’s number.

_u free?_

Connor texts him back a few minutes later, while Jack’s still lying on his bed, naked and sticky with come.

_Yeah?_

Jack FaceTimes him. It’s stupid, because Connor could be anywhere with anyone, but he does it anyway.

Connor’s surprised face answers the call, and Jack breathes a little easier when he recognizes Connor’s bland home decor in the background. “Hey,” Connor greets him, shifting into an easy smile. Then he squints a little and his cheeks suddenly get a little color. “Are you- Jack, are you naked?”

“Maybe,” Jack teases, dipping his phone angle just a little. “Are you busy?”

Connor’s eyes go hilariously wide and his phone shakes a little before Connor looks away from the screen and Jack watches him run up his stairs and into his bedroom, the loud slam of his bedroom door making Jack chuckle.

“This is- uh,” Connor says, his voice muffled as he strips off his hoodie. “Like, are you sure?”

“Sure about what, Connor?” Jack asks innocently. “What do you think I’m calling you for?”

Connor pauses and stares at Jack. More accurately, he stares at Jack’s chest, which is gratifying for his ego. Jack might flex just a little. “Uh. Phone sex?”

“Connor McDavid,” Jack says, grinning as he feigns shock. “That’s mighty presumptuous of you. I thought you were a good, innocent Canadian boy.”

Connor rolls his eyes and shoves his pants down. Jack gets an eyeful and this is already better than any action he’s had in the last three months.

“Let me see,” Connor demands.

Jack cocks an eyebrow but he angles his phone so that Connor can see his semi-hard dick and the telling splash of jizz on his belly.

The sharp intake of breath that follows is enough to get Jack all the way hard again.

It turns out that Connor is ridiculously good at phone sex too. And eager to repeat it on a weekly basis, if their schedules allow.

The two times they hook up that season are the only action Jack has with another person all season, and he’s pretty proud of himself when he manages to fuck Connor speechless after a particularly competitive, physical game in Buffalo. It’s a pretty sweet moment, one that Jack decides to use to explain to Connor why his defensive game sucks ass.

Connor just stares at him, panting hard as he tries to catch his breath while Jack winds down on why Connor can’t just rely on his speed and fast hands to get the team out of defensive trouble. “You’ve been watching my games?” he asks eventually, sounding surprised.

“It’s called game tape, dumbass,” Jack reminds him with an exaggerated eye roll.

Connor smiles dumbly at him anyway.

And he cups Jack’s face when he kisses him goodbye, his thumbs stroking gently against Jack’s skin while he presses soft, lingering kisses to Jack’s lips.

“See you next season,” Connor murmurs, then he slips out the door, closing it behind him.

Jack unconsciously licks his lips.

Then he swears, loudly and profusely, and heads for the shower.

*

Connor invites him to Toronto over the summer.

He mentions it in an offhand way once while they’re FaceTiming and Jack’s trying to enjoy his afterglow. He’s just watched Connor finger himself to an orgasm and he’s feeling pretty fucking good, so he just murmurs something that probably sounds like agreement.

Then Connor mentions it again a few weeks later, this time during the actual fingering. Jack’s got a slick hand on his dick and he’s watching Connor’s fingers slide in and out of his hole and Connor’s going on and on relentlessly about wanting Jack to do this to him next time they see each other, so Jack’s not really thinking about anything other than getting his dick into Connor when Connor pants: “Come to Toronto for a weekend or whatever, I just need you to fuck me for hours when we’re not exhausted from a game.”

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, not really listening while Connor arches his back and groans as his fingers slide back inside himself.

“Yeah,” Connor moans. “Gonna spend the whole two days in bed, let you fuck me whenever you want, yeah? Suck your dick for hours. God, Jack. I want you so bad. Want you to really fuck me hard, so I feel it the next day.”

“Yeah,” Jack pants, almost there. “Gonna fuck you so good, Connor.”

Then they both come and Jack completely forgets the entire conversation.

“So you’re gonna come?” Connor asks, stroking his hands down Jack’s torso. They’re at Connor’s place, and they’ve already played in Buffalo this season. “To Toronto. Over the summer.”

Jack blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’d forgotten all about Connor’s proposal, because fuckbuddies don’t plan vacation time together. And he and Connor have never met up in the off-season. Then he thinks about all the time they could spend having really good sex when they’re not restricted by games and curfews. “Yeah,” he says. It’s stupid. It’s dumb. They absolutely shouldn’t do this.

But Connor smiles at him, looking pleased and surprised, like he hadn’t thought Jack would agree, and then he sucks Jack’s dick until he sees stars, so it looks like he’s going to goddamn Toronto this summer.

*

Connor’s apartment is modest, and much smaller than Jack had been expecting. He walks inside and looks around, hitching his overnight bag a little higher on his shoulder as he rolls his eyes at the framed 97 jerseys adorning one of the walls.

He feels a little awkward, if he’s being honest. Connor is just standing there, staring at him, while Jack tries to figure out what he’s meant to do. Normally, Connor would be kissing him by now and trying to strip off his clothes.

“Do you want something to eat?” Connor asks politely instead.

“Nah, I grabbed something on the way here,” Jack says. He doesn’t add that he was expecting a sex marathon as soon as he arrived, so he was stockpiling calories in anticipation. “Uh, where do you want me to put this?” he gestures to his bag.

“Oh!” Connor flushes and guides him to what Jack is almost sure is Connor’s bedroom. It’s as boring and bland as the rest of his apartment though so it’s entirely possible that it’s a guest room.

Jack dumps his bag on the floor and toes off his sneakers. “Well,” he says and hooks his thumbs into his sweatpants. “Wanna fuck me?”

Connor chokes on air as Jack steps out of his pants and whips his top off. Jack’s feeling pretty good about his summer body. It’s still pale as ever, but he’s put on some muscle and usually Connor only sees him at his mid-season best. His arms are defined, his torso is lean, and he knows he looks good.

Judging by the way Connor can’t stop staring at him, he guesses that Connor likes what he sees too.

“Well?” Jack asks smugly.

“I thought you’d fuck me, first,” Connor says, stalking towards him as he shakes off whatever momentary paralysis he’d been experiencing at the mere sight of Jack’s physique. He’s stripping off too, and Jack barely has a second to admire Connor’s own off-season body before they’re tumbling onto Connor’s bed, mouths finding each other and hands greedily moving, seeking whatever skin they can find.

Connor gets his wish, letting Jack fuck him for what feels like hours, taking his time and learning a whole new way to get Connor to fall apart. They’ve been fucking around for years, but having nothing but time means that they both find new ways to drive each other insane. Jack learns that Connor likes having his nipples suckled, while both Connor and Jack discover Jack’s indefatigable stamina that only ends when Connor’s come twice on Jack’s cock and Jack can’t feel his thighs at all.

They order takeout when it gets dark, and Connor throws on the first shirt he finds to answer the door. When Jack realizes it’s his own shirt, with his name proud across Connor’s broad shoulders, their pizzas are forgotten as Jack blows him right there against the front door, Connor’s hand buried in Jack’s curls and his name repeatedly falling from Connor’s lips.

They finally settle to watch tv while they eat, and Jack wonders if this is when it gets awkward. He doesn’t think he’s got another orgasm in him for at least a few hours, so they’ll probably have to have an actual conversation, and Jack’s honestly not sure how that’ll go. Either a screaming argument, which they can’t solve by angrily fucking each other if Jack’s dick is spent for the night, or awkward silence, probably.

“You’ve got to show me your workout schedule,” Connor says out of nowhere, after they’ve devoured half their pizzas in silence.

“Why?” Jack asks and grabs another slice.

“Well, if you’re expecting me to fuck you for two hours straight, you’re going to be disappointed,” Connor says dryly. “Your stamina is off the charts.”

Jack smirks at him around a mouthful of pizza. “Thanks.”

They do actually compare their workout schedules, and Jack can see Connor making mental notes. He wonders if Connor will take anything from Jack’s training, and then he wonders if Connor might be bigger next year than this past one. It’s a train of thought that’s going to get him in trouble.

“We can head down to the gym tomorrow morning if you want to,” Connor says. “Do a bit of cardio, maybe some weights.”

“I think we’ve got cardio covered here,” Jack leers and slides his hand up Connor’s thigh, squeezing hard when he gets dangerously close to Connor’s dick.

“I guess,” Connor says, sounding unsure.

“Connor, I came here to get well and truly fucked, not to work out,” Jack says as patiently as he can. “You can miss one day and still be the best player in the world, dickhead.”

“Shut up,” Connor mutters, flushing bright red. “I’m not.”

“Sure, Connor,” Jack says and rolls his eyes. He’s never been one for false modesty, he’s not a Good Canadian Boy like Connor or Crosby or Gretzky. “You’re a real deadweight on that team of yours for sure.”

Later, once they’re back in bed and Jack’s wondering if he can actually go for another round tonight, Connor clears his throat.

“Earlier, you said,” he starts, then he clearly wusses out and clams up.

“I say lots of things,” Jack says around a yawn.

“You said. About me,” Connor tries again. “About, you know.”

Jack waits but apparently that’s all he’s getting. “No, Connor, I don’t know,” he says and turns to face Connor, who’s already on his side and watching Jack. “What?”

“Best player,” Connor says so quickly that it takes Jack a moment to decipher what he says.

Jack blinks and then a slow smile curves onto his lips. “Oh,” he says softly and slides his hand over Connor’s hip, possessive and firm. He watches Connor bite down on his lip and Jack’s dick stirs with interest. “You want me to boost your ego, huh? You want me to pump your tires, best player in the world, yeah?”

“Fuck,” Connor whispers, softly enough that Jack only hears it because there’s complete silence around them.

“Oh my god, you’re such a cliche,” Jack snickers, reaching down to cup Connor’s dick. He’s mostly soft, but he whimpers at the touch and Jack thinks he can work with this. Connor’s an asshole and if he’d discovered this side of Connor two, three years ago, he’d never think about doing what he’s about to do. “What do you want then, Connor? You want me to praise your hockey while you fuck me?”

As it turns out, Connor wants to do exactly that. It’s achingly slow, and Jack’s original plan to tease him for his blatant praise kink goes out the window around the time Connor’s got him flat on his back, his legs spread wide and Connor’s tongue fucking into him. Instead it’s just Jack being honest, telling Connor exactly how he feels about Connor’s speed and skill while Connor fucks into him, both of them shaking and sweaty, Connor’s hot face buried in Jack’s throat until they both come with a gentle slide into orgasm.

*

They spend the morning watching shitty tv, both of them completely exhausted from the day before. Jack spends the rest of the day teasing Connor about being the best player in the world, until Connor gets so worked up that they end up fucking on the floor outside Connor’s bedroom because neither of them can wait long enough to actually make it to the bed.

He’s got to leave in the morning, so they test out Jack’s stamina again that evening. Jack coaxes two easy orgasms from Connor before he turns Connor onto his side and slides into him easily. He knows Connor’s body now, knows to slide one hand up to tweak at his nipples before ghosting down Connor’s torso to grip his cock, working him over until Connor’s gasping and pleading with Jack to let him come.

It’s the best sex he’s had in his life, and Jack wants. He wants so much. When Connor turns his head, Jack latches onto him, kissing him until they’re both breathless and Connor comes with a cry into his hand. Jack shakes as he lets himself go, his head pressed to the back of Connor’s neck as he breathes through it.

He only gets up long enough to dispose of the condom and clean them both up, then he slides back into bed, curling around Connor and falling asleep almost instantly, exhausted.

*

They fuck one last time, up against the kitchen counter because Jack walks in on Connor making him breakfast and his chest feels all funny, so the only thing he can do is crowd up against Connor’s back and let their bodies do the rest.

Saying goodbye doesn’t feel awkward. Jack doesn’t mind Connor’s sweet goodbye kisses when he’s not trying to get out the door to make curfew, and he ends up leaving a full half hour later than he means to. It’s a weird feeling, to know that he made out with Connor for thirty minutes with no sex on the table.

Jack goes back to Boston and doesn’t hear from Connor for the rest of the summer.

*

They play Edmonton early in the season. Jack’s antsy all game, eager to get the win. They lose 3-2, but Jack gets two points to Connor’s one, so he’s counting it as a win. He’s bouncing on his heels as he knocks on Connor’s door, pushing Connor back into a desperate kiss as soon as the door opens.

“Hi,” Connor says with a laugh as Jack starts pawing at his clothes.

“Fuck off,” Jack mutters. He’s not sure whether he means to direct it at Connor or Connor’s clothes, but Connor laughs anyway and starts helping Jack in his endeavor to get them both naked as quickly as possible.

It’s frantic in a way that they aren’t, usually, even with their limited time. Jack knows now what Connor feels like when he really lets go and he wants it, wants to taste Connor fall apart, wants them both to break and not bend. He feels like he might shatter into a million pieces if Connor wants him to, if he tries to pull Jack apart and put him together again all wrong. He feels like something’s shifting between them, and he’s terrified. Fucking Toronto.

In the end, neither of them break but they’re both sweaty, gross, and Connor’s got his head pillowed on Jack’s chest, idly tracing patterns on his skin with his finger.

“Two months,” Connor murmurs.

Something in Jack’s chest feels too tight. “Gotta give you time to work on your defensive play,” he says. It comes out a little too breathless for his liking. “You made it too easy to score on you in the second tonight.”

“Are you complaining about scoring with me?” Connor asks, lifting his head to grin at Jack, like he’s proud of his terrible chirping.

Jack rolls his eyes anyway. “It’s too easy to score on you,” he clarifies. “And not even Connor McDavid can score five goals a game to keep you guys afloat.” Connor shifts against him, looking mightily shifty. “Oh my God, Connor. Seriously? I haven’t got time for another round, and I’m not indulging your weird sex praise thing during the season.”

Jack doesn’t even know if Connor’s aware of the way he’s rubbing himself against Jack, so he clamps his hands down on Connor’s hips to keep him still, which leaves Connor half-straddling his legs, leaning up over him, and now they’re staring into each other’s eyes, like something out of one of the many rom-coms that Jessie makes him watch when he’s home over the summer.

“Jack,” Connor says softly.

“Connor,” Jack says and immediately feels really stupid. He’s not cut out for romance or whatever the hell this moment is. “Shit. I uh. I think I um. Love you?” And immediately wants to throw up.

Connor’s head snaps back and he sits up, his eyes growing comically wide while he stares down at Jack. “Uh.”

“Shit,” Jack swears and wishes that he wasn’t naked right now. Connor isn’t leaning down to give him more sweet kisses and he’s definitely not confessing to any deeply embarrassing and mutual feelings for Jack. “Shit. Forget I said that.”

He shoves Connor the rest of the way off him and climbs out of Connor’s bed, scrambling for his clothes where they’re discarded on his predictably bland wooden floors. He feels like an idiot. His cheeks are burning hot and Connor’s still not saying anything. Jack needs to get out of there right now. He needs - he needs his phone, damn it. He swipes it from Connor’s nightstand, keeping his gaze locked away from where Connor’s still sitting on his haunches and definitely staring at Jack as he tries to get dressed as quickly as he can.

“Jack,” Connor finally says, his voice wary and unsure.

“Just don’t, okay?” Jack says, desperately looking for his other sock. “Don’t say it.”

His humiliation complete, Jack gives up on his lost sock and gets the fuck out of Connor’s bedroom. He shoves his feet into his boots, grabs his jacket and slams the door behind him. He walks halfway down Connor’s street before he calls for a car, which leaves him stamping his half-frozen feet and shivering, his hands tucked under his arms as he looks unseeingly out at the road.

When his car finally pulls up, Jack climbs in and keeps his beanie pulled low to avoid talking to the driver. The heaters are on, but he still feels numb by the time he pulls up to his hotel and slinks in, waiting until he’s in his room before he sinks onto his bed and puts his head in his hands.

He thought - well, clearly he’d been wrong. Connor hadn’t been feeling all the same mixed up emotions Jack’s been feeling for months.

Suddenly angry, he takes off his hat and throws it at the wall. Stupid fucking Connor and his sweet kisses and nice texts. Fuck Connor for making him fall in love with him and fuck Connor for not loving him back.

*

The burn of humiliation doesn’t dissipate after a long shower to scrub every trace of Connor from his body. A fitful night’s sleep doesn’t help either, and Jack’s mood is still foul by the time they get on the ice to play Calgary. He beats his own record for penalty minutes taken in a game, and every time he cools his skates in the box, he’s picturing Connor’s reaction to his stupid feelings confession.

Which is even more frustrating because Jack would like to never see Connor ever again. Unless they’re on the ice and facing off, so Jack can take that puck and shove it into Connor’s net again and again, until Connor feels exactly how Jack feels right now.

They take the loss and no one mentions Jack’s sudden spike in penalty minutes or how it cost them the game, which he’s grateful for. There’s only so much self-flagellation he can bear right now.

Besides, he’s too busy being angry at Connor, who he doesn’t hear from all week, which is just another layer of humiliation for Jack to deal with in stony silence. He’s just stopped flinching every time his phone vibrates in anticipation of a text that never arrives when Connor does in fact message him.

_can we talk please_

Jack’s so completely incensed, so utterly filled with sudden rage, that he throws his phone across the room in anger and watches, satisfied, as it smashes against the floor, shattering into a heap of useless technology.

“No we can’t talk, you fucking asshole,” Jack adds for good measure. Jesus. If people only knew how much of an asshole their huge star was. “Dickhead,” he says, just because it feels good to say it out loud, even though he’s alone at home.

He’s not even mad that he has to order a new phone, or that it’ll take two days to arrive, because fuck Connor, and Jack’s a petty ass anyway.

*

There’s several messages from Connor when Jack finally sets up his new iPhone, ranging from sulky to pleading and one that might have been sent after a few beers that manages to make Jack smile meanly. He’s tempted to ignore Connor, to show him what it’s like to be ignored, but Jack also likes having the upper hand so he replies with a brief _what do u want, mcdavid_ because he knows it’ll piss Connor off and he gets to feel superior about being a better person than Connor McDavid for all of two minutes before his phone lights up and Connor’s name is flashing obnoxiously at him.

Connor is calling him. What the fuck?

Despite his inner voice screaming at him to ignore the call, Jack presses accept and puts Connor on speakerphone. “Hey,” he says in his best faux-casual bored drawl.

“Hey,” Connor says. “Where’ve you been?”

Jack cocks an eyebrow at the accusatory tone. “Excuse me?” he says coolly.

“You’ve been ignoring my messages,” Connor says, and he is un-fucking-believable because he sounds _hurt_.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, sounding anything but. “Are you fucking kidding me right now, McDavid?”

“Stop calling me that,” Connor snaps back. “And no, I’m not kidding. We need to talk.”

“You are such a fucking hypocrite,” Jack whips back at him. “I told you I - l said, well, you know, and you didn’t contact me for a week. A week, Connor. So fuck you. Don’t call me again, I’m blocking your number.”

He hangs up, breathing hard and carefully places his phone on his kitchen counter. He replays their conversation, short as it was, over and over and doesn’t feel any better. He’s still angry. He’s still embarrassed. And he’s still in whatever with an asshole.

*

Jack doesn’t actually block Connor’s number. He means to, but he forgets, and then Connor texts him a few days before their next, and final, game of the season versus each other. Jack ignores it. He’s getting really good at ignoring Connor. Everyone thinks they hate each other anyway, so no one on the team bats an eyelid if Jack turns the channel over if Edmonton are playing, or they’re showing the daily Connor McDavid showreel on Sportsnet .

On game day, he’s on edge, aware that Connor is in his city, that he’ll see him tonight at the game. They’ll do the puck drop, shake hands and then it’ll be game time. Connor is just another opponent, same as any other game in any other city. Then the Oilers will leave, and Jack won’t have to think about Connor for months. He won’t have to sit through game tape to remind him how skilled Connor’s hands are, or listen to the coaches as they attempt to figure out a game plan to shut Connor down during the game.

Like anyone can shut Connor down if he doesn’t want them to.

They get through the preliminaries, with Jack pretending that he doesn’t know exactly where Connor is on the ice during warmups and a brittle smile as they shake hands after puck drop.

Jack thinks he’s got this under control, and then Connor decides to get handsy on the ice.

He nearly drops his stick like a goddamn rookie the first time Connor shoves him against the boards, pressing his full body up against Jack’s back. There’s several layers of protection between them but Jack feels overheated anyway, his body on fire like it recognizes Connor’s touch through his gloves.

Jack pushes back and skates away. He doesn’t look back.

But Connor does it again on their next shift, getting way closer than he usually does. Jack’s used to being marked by guys on the ice, but he’s never been hunted like this by Connor before. There’s a laser-focus intensity in Connor’s eyes when they face off, and Jack finds himself being pinned again, this time in the neutral zone, and he’s had enough.

He grunts, shoving back against Connor until he can feel air between them and then he whirls around and slashes at Connor’s hands, careful to not catch him anywhere that’ll do any real damage. “Stop,” he growls shortly and skates back to his bench to change.

*

When Connor turns up at his place after the game, Jack’s not even surprised. He opens the door, wearing his favorite Buffalo hoodie and a pair of comfortable sweats that hug his ass, and lets Connor inside.

“Thanks,” Connor says softly. “I wasn’t sure you’d let me in.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not the asshole here,” Jack says dryly. He leads Connor into his front room and waits for Connor to sit before he takes the other sofa, leaving half a room between them. Connor looks at him miserably.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he actually looks like he means it. “I’m really fucking sorry, Jack.”

Jack looks away. “Dude, it’s fine,” he mutters. “We don’t have to talk about this at all. I’d rather we didn’t, actually. If we could just pretend nothing in the last four years ever happened, that would be great.”

“No,” Connor says quickly. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” Jack says pointedly.

“I didn’t know that you wanted that,” Connor says, sounding frustrated enough that Jack looks over at him and arches an eyebrow. “How would I have known that you- that you were- I mean, I thought you hated me. I thought we were just fooling around, having really, really good sex.”

Jack scoffs. “Right. So are you as sweet with all your other hookups as you were with me?”

Connor blinks at him in confusion.

“Of course you are,” Jack sighs. “Well, fuck you for being nice to me and making me think that we were both feeling things, when it was just me.” He stands up abruptly, because he suddenly can’t bear to having Connor in his personal space like this. This is his home, and Connor doesn’t get to be here when Jack doesn’t want him to be.

Connor stands up too, because he’s polite and Canadian and lets Jack herd him back towards his front door. “Jack …”

“For future reference, when you’re fucking someone and you want it to stay casual, don’t kiss them goodbye sweetly, don’t text them nice things when they become captain of their NHL team and don’t invite them to your home in Toronto for a weekend break.”

Jack hands Connor his jacket and opens the door for him. “Goodbye, Connor.”

Connor looks like he wants to say something but Jack doesn’t want to hear it, so he closes the door gently but firmly in Connor’s face.

It feels good, and Jack’s desperately in need of a win here. He’ll take what he can get.

*

Jack actually loves All-Star weekend, unlike most of the guys in the league. He likes the attention, and he likes playing on a line with Auston, and hanging out with Zach and Noah. It’s a nice reprieve from another hard-fought season, even if Connor has been making cow-eyes at him all morning. Jack half-hopes Connor will snap out of it, but if anything, it gets worse until Jack grabs him after dinner, when most of the guys are heading out and Auston’s sending him increasingly aggressive threats to get his ass down to whatever dive bar they’ve ended up in.

“Come with me,” Jack snaps and drags Connor into his hotel room. “Alright,” he says, when Connor’s standing awkwardly next to Jack’s unmade bed, still giving Jack those stupid sad eyes. “Stop being such an asshole, okay? I didn’t ask to fall in whatever with you, okay? You’re the one who made me have these dumb feelings. Do you think I want them? Do you think I’m not trying to get rid of them? It’s not fucking fair of you to keep making me feel guilty for falling for you, it’s not like I want to want you. If you think I don’t fucking hate this, then you’re a dickhead. So just stop, okay? I’m doing my goddamn best, here.”

“No,” Connor blurts out and he takes a step towards Jack, his hand outstretched like he wants to touch Jack or something, which okay, no, that’s not happening at all. Especially when they’re both angry and there’s a bed, like, right there. “I want to-, just let me say something, please?”

“Whatever,” Jack says. He’s so over this. He just wants to go get trashed with his US boys and forget that Connor McDavid is the bane of his entire life, or that this might actually be Jack’s fault for not kicking Connor out of his bed that first night.

“Thanks,” Connor says, and he sounds so grateful that Jack crosses his arms against his chest and glares at him. Connor, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. “I’m sorry. I know I said it before, but I guess I can say it as many times as you need to hear it before you believe me. I’m sorry that I didn’t say anything when you told me you loved me.”

Jack coughs loudly and glares at him a little harder.

“I’m sorry I made you feel something that you don’t want to feel, but if it’s not too late, and you don’t completely hate me, then I’d like to try,” Connor says in a rush. He’s staring at Jack like he’s trying to see into his soul or something, and Jack squirms under the scrutiny.

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, trying to figure out whatever it is that Connor’s trying to say with his lame words. “Try what?”

“Us,” Connor says. He must be feeling brave because he takes another step, closing the gap between them and he carefully reaches for Jack’s hand.

Jack’s too shocked to pull away.

“I never let myself go there with you before,” Connor murmurs. He’s looking at their tangled fingers and there’s a hint of a smile on his stupid face. Jack hates him so much. “It seemed impossible, you know? But now that I know how you feel, how you felt,” and Connor pauses to clear his throat, “well, I want to try.”

Jack scoffs. He can’t help it.

“I’m trying to be honest,” Connor says, squeezing their fingers and finally looking up, straight into Jack’s eyes and unnerving him. Jack’s always had a thing about Connor’s eyes. “I feel like we’ve always had that between us, you know? It’s more than I’ve had with anyone else before.”

Jack swallows unsteadily.

“Let me prove it,” Connor pleads, and Jack kisses him.

Jack’s never been particularly smart, off the ice at least. Connor’s no better, as far as Jack can tell. They’re both dumbasses with short fuses and a competitive streak wider than even most hockey players. But kissing Connor doesn’t feel dumb, not when Connor runs his hands down over Jack’s ass then back up, slipping underneath his shirt. He sinks into it, lets Connor draw him in until they’re pressed together, until Jack loses himself in Connor’s familiar touch.

It’s with reluctance that he puts his hand on Connor’s chest and pushes just hard enough to break the kiss. “Prove it then,” he says huskily.

Connor bites on his lower lip thoughtfully, and Jack seriously thinks about shoving him back against the wall and stripping him naked and doing all the things he knows will drive Connor crazy until they pass out in Jack’s bed.

Connor takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, and leans in to kiss Jack again, sweetly and with more care than Jack thought he was capable of. “Do you want to get room service? I didn’t eat much at dinner.”

The sudden change of mood has Jack spinning but he collects himself quickly. “Too busy mooning over me, huh?” Jack says smugly.

“Yeah,” Connor says. “Actually, I was.”

“Oh.” Jack feels a little warm. It might have something to do with the completely unsubtle way that Connor’s trying to sneakily hold his hand. “I could eat, I guess.”

Which is how Connor and Jack end up in Jack’s bed, eating pasta and watching the highlights from the skills comp earlier.

“Why did Auston put me in for fastest skater again?” Jack whines when their bit comes up. “If I’m ever captain at one of these things, I’m going to make Auston do it as payback.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s fucking with you,” Connor says and hooks his ankle over Jack’s. “Eichel vs McDavid? He’s definitely fucking with you.”

“Whatever,” Jack grumbles. “He’s clearly full of shit, because there’s no rivalry.”

“Pretty sure you’ve beaten us every game we’ve played,” Connor points out. “That’s hardly a rivalry.”

“Stop trying to sweet-talk me,” Jack says with a grin. “I’m not the one who likes to get off on being told how great he is.”

Connor flushes, like he always does whenever Jack brings up his weird ass kink. “You know,” he says, “in the interest of being completely honest. It’s not really the whole praise thing that gets me off.”

“Uh, Connor, I was right there listing all your greatest achievements when you came so hard you passed out,” Jack says dryly. “Twice.”

“I know,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. “But it was less about the uh, achievements, or whatever, and more, um, who was saying it, I guess.”

Jack freezes with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Connor says and shrugs helplessly.

Jack puts his food down and pries Connor’s from him, before he turns towards him and kisses him with all the sweetness he can muster. “I guess I’ll have to keep it for special occasions,” he says between kisses, when Connor looks half-drunk on Jack and can’t seem to unlatch his fingers where they’re digging into Jack’s thighs.

“Sounds good,” Connor says roughly and pulls him in again.

*

Jack should have known that Connor, who is competitive, stubborn and an asshole, would take his suggestion to prove himself and run with it. Jack gets bombarded with soundbites from Connor about how great Eichs is as a player during the rest of the weekend, and they’re not even on the same team. He gets hundreds of snapchats from Connor, most of them sweet, some of them dorky and a few that Jack’s tempted to screenshot, if they weren’t x-rated as fuck.

Connor calls every night, even after their home games when it’s well past midnight in Buffalo, but Jack doesn’t mind, despite his grumpy replies. Connor also makes plans for the summer, which is still months away and both their teams are chasing playoff spots that probably won’t happen but Jack can dream anyway.

They FaceTime several times a week and Jack finds new ways to get Connor off using just his voice. It’s not until towards the end of the season when Jack accidentally calls him McDavid when they’re in the middle of a co-jerking off session and he watches in surprise as Connor shudders and comes almost immediately.

He starts using it all the time, to Connor’s embarrassment and Jack’s delight.

When neither Buffalo or Edmonton make the playoffs, Jack waits until the day after locker clear out before he books a flight to Toronto and texts Connor to tell him to be at his apartment in six hours or else.

Connor’s there, waiting for him. He takes Jack’s bag from him and kisses him on the cheek and Jack’s had enough of this chaste shit. He kisses Connor like he’s desperate for it, making it wet and sloppy and possessive until Connor gets the idea and kisses him back. They don’t make it to the bedroom, so they christen Connor’s new sofa instead. Twice.

“So can I call you my boyfriend now?” Connor asks during Jack’s afterglow, because he’s an asshole who never misses a chance to fuck with Jack.

Jack kind of loves him.

“I dunno,” Jack says, stroking his hand through Connor’s hair. It’s longer than usual, and Jack’s hoping to convince Connor to keep it that way for a little while. It’s a nice handful. “I don’t think I’d ever have a boyfriend who asks embarrassing questions like that.”

Connor snickers and reaches up to kiss him. “I think you would,” he says confidently. “Boyfriend.”

Jack groans and goes for a gloveless face wash that Connor laughingly dodges. “You’re the worst boyfriend ever. I knew there had to be something you’d be terrible at.”

Connor beams at him and proceeds to use every excuse he can find to call Jack his boyfriend for the rest of the day. It’s annoying and sweet and makes Jack want to kiss him every time he says it, just to shut him up.

They never do make it to the bedroom.


End file.
